


What Does Bravery Taste Like

by theemdash



Series: Five Kisses Across Time [1]
Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Angst, Fist Fights, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Period Typical Attitudes, Pining, Pre-Bucky Barnes/Steve Rogers, Pre-Serum Steve Rogers, pretty when they bleed
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-12
Updated: 2020-05-12
Packaged: 2021-03-03 03:08:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,066
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24137878
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theemdash/pseuds/theemdash
Summary: Steve's never shied from the consequences of his actions—stand up for someone, take a punch, get back up. But for as happy he is to wear a shiner on his face, there's one consequence he can't accept. (It's Bucky finding out how much he's into him, if you needed that spelled out.)
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes/Steve Rogers
Series: Five Kisses Across Time [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1741873
Comments: 16
Kudos: 88





	What Does Bravery Taste Like

**Author's Note:**

> Written as a response to Get Your Words Out 2020 Yahtzee; **Prompt:** Strong
> 
> Thanks to [sopdetly](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sopdetly/) for betaing and putting up with all my angst.

**1940**

The fist connecting with his jaw feels like a sledgehammer, but Steve stays upright, leading with his shoulders as he hurls his whole arm into the bully's gut. He staggers back, out of breath after just three swings, and barely manages to dance away from the next punch. 

"That all you got?" he taunts. He sways, tries to rock with it to make it look purposeful, but really he's not sure he can take another hit.

"Look who's talking, mick." The fist comes down on Steve hard, his lip splitting and spraying blood on his trousers. He keeps his feet under him, though, legs planted and firm because fuck if this asshole is taking him down.

Steve nails him, right under the chin, his teeth clacking together as his head snaps back. "Me? I can do this all day." Steve spits the metallic-tasting blood from his mouth and feels his muscles sing underneath the protestation. His fists squeeze tighter, skin shining with righteous fury. He was made to fight, even if his body wasn't built for it.

He blocks the next two punches from the taller blond, gets in a jab to the side of the bully's head, but the third punch sends Steve to the ground, right shoulder slamming into concrete. His forehead kisses the grit of the alley, and for a second—for just a damn second—he thinks coldly, _I'm done._

"Back off!" 

The sharp command is followed by a scuffle that gets Steve scrambling to his feet, but the bully's being yanked away and chased off. "What kind of man are you?" the newcomer shouts at the retreating back, and Steve's brain is rattled enough it takes him a second to recognize Bucky's voice.

Bucky turns around, sleeves rolled up, greased hair curling across his forehead. His eyes flit across the alley as if he's looking to pick a fight with the garbage cans, but then he pushes his hair back and sighs. "Steve. What the fuck?"

Steve drops his fists, eye catching the red on them, but he keeps them at his sides. Not like the alley isn't already spotted with his blood.

"You didn't need to bail me out."

"Yeah, you were doing fine." Bucky brushes the dirt from Steve's shoulder, and for once Steve lets him. "Steve. Shit, pal." His hands get friendlier, straightening Steve's clothes, pushing his hair back, brushing his cheek. Steve stays still, letting it happen, letting Bucky mother him all he likes because of the cold moment on the ground when Steve gave up and Bucky showed—right then—to save his sorry ass.

The self-pity ignites the fight in him and he pushes Bucky's hands away, immediately missing the warm, gentle touch on his skin. "Quit it, I'm okay."

"You're bleeding," Bucky snaps. "More than usual, and— _fuck,_ do you hear me, Steve?" He paces a few steps away, hands balled into fists. "There's a usual amount you bleed. Why the hell do you keep doing this?" Bucky yanks a handkerchief from his back pocket and holds it out, head turned away. Steve considers shoving it back at him, but his lip hurts and he hasn't looked at his knuckles yet, but they hurt too. And his forehead hurts where it hit the ground, and—

He takes the handkerchief and dabs at his hand. Bucky doesn't say anything, but Steve can feel the tension rolling off him like one of the caged cats in Prospect Park Zoo.

"You know I can't ignore it," Steve finally says. The guy had been harassing an old man wearing a yarmulke, and no one but Steve had stepped up to say it was wrong. "You wouldn't, either, Buck." He's quiet, refusing to look at Bucky and keeping his full attention on cleaning up his scraped knuckles. "Don't—Don't expect me to do any less than you'd do." He clenches his jaw tight, lip stinging with the movement. 

His words ring in the air, the plea hanging between them. Steve's never sure if what he's asking is fair, but it's his choice to stand up and make himself a target. He's never shied away from the consequences.

Bucky shuffles forward, work boots edging into Steve's blurry vision. He doesn't tell Steve to stop, or point out all the physical reasons Steve needs to leave the fights to him, but he does take the handkerchief from Steve's now trembling fingers. 

"I just hate seeing you banged up," he whispers. His voice drags through gravel, rough in the center but worn at the edges, the way it sounds at the end of a long day when he's trying to convince Steve it's still his turn for the bed. "Makes me feel like I fucked up. Like I wasn't there when you needed me."

He taps Steve's chin, a gentle push, and when Steve looks up, Bucky's all concern: blue eyes begging Steve to be kind, mouth pulled into a worried frown. It's not the kind of look Steve likes putting on Bucky's face, but selfishly, he's glad to see it, to know Bucky cares.

"Steve." Bucky's voice is soft, caressing Steve's wounds and wrapping his heart in a different kind of danger. Bucky leans closer, forehead dipping to meet Steve's, the heat between them growing like anticipation. 

Bucky touches the handkerchief to Steve's busted lip, fingertip pressure against the cut. It's so kind, so gentle, it breaks Steve worse than the fist to his face.

He holds Bucky's gaze, desperately thinking, _please._ Hope fills Steve's lungs until he feels like he's choking on it. He could fit his hand around Bucky's wrist, push the handkerchief out of the way, and close the few inches between them.

But if it goes badly, he can't take it back.

The spell breaks, and Bucky's fingers lift. Steve's lips chase them, a cowardly featherlight kiss on a departing touch.

Bucky pockets the handkerchief and straightens, taking a step back. "I'm walking you home." His voice is back to normal, hedging into sanctimonious, but softened by the honeyed-tones he'd just whispered to Steve.

Steve doesn't argue, or insist he's fine on his own, because he's not. He needs Bucky more than he wants to need anyone. His need slides over his tongue, sour and tart, flooding his senses. Maybe one day he'll fess up to it. He hopes so. He hopes Bucky needs Steve, too.

**Author's Note:**

> The fics in this series can be read stand-alone, but there is an emotional arc across all five stories.


End file.
